


Heat

by WeNeedARuse



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bill Billiamson too, Lot's of rambling, M/M, SPIT YOU HEAR, Sex, Smut, Spit As Lube, about 400 times, it's just very hot in Clemens Point, it's really not very good, just the word sweat over and over, mentions of john marston, mentions of sweat, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 14:35:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20193850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeNeedARuse/pseuds/WeNeedARuse
Summary: The heat is getting to Arthur.





	Heat

**Author's Note:**

> SO.
> 
> This is for Mango-Van-Der-Linde and several others who have joined in the "sweat as lube" debacle over on tumblr. I hope you all enjoy!
> 
> I was originally planning on writing something stupid and silly for it but then this happened. I don't really know what *this* is but as I haven't been able to actually write anything in well over a week, I'm just pleased something was able to fall out of my head.
> 
> However, please...uh...please be gentle with me on this fic, it's not exactly how I wanted it, it's just what came out. 
> 
> and, as always kudos are lovely but comments really, really, really help me. In a way it's impossible to describe. 
> 
> But anyhoo, I digress because I'm incredibly nervous for you to read this...on with the fic.

It’s warm.

No, strike that.

It’s hot.

Sticky hot, sweaty hot. Hair plastered to your forehead, shirt sticking to your chest, sweat dripping down your back, hot. Air so thick you almost feel like you can’t breathe hot. Walking through syrup hot. 

Southern hot.

Heat like this makes the camp lazy. The women sit by the water, hoping to catch even the slightest breeze as they dip their toes in the lake and lean back, faces up turned to the blazing sun. The men suspend their work, laying about in the shade of the trees, in their tents, trying to catch some sleep.

And Dutch,

Even Dutch allows this.

Even Dutch has capitulated to the sun enough to take off his waistcoat, rolled his sleeves up, unbuttoned another one of his shirt buttons.

A sight that has Arthur forcing himself not to look.

Because if he does,

If he so much as thinks about the way that shirt clings to the lines of his back…

No.

So Arthur hides himself too. Settles himself at the furthest point of the shore, leans back against a rock and pulls his hat down to cover his face.

Tries not to think about Dutch and how they haven’t had even the smallest amount of time alone together in the last month.

Tries not to think about sticky hands, sticky skin, sweat soaked and…

Tries not to think because if he does he’ll have an erection as well as interminable heat to deal with. 

So,

Sits instead, eyes closed.

And hopes the night will bring the storm the day seems to promise. 

***

The night is worse. 

No breeze, no relief.

His own tent seems to close, too uncomfortable. There will be no rest, no sleep. 

Arthur almost misses the mountains.

Almost misses Colter.

And the way Dutch had fucked out his frustrations.

He shifts on his pallet, uncomfortable from more than just the heat. From the very memory of it. From the way Dutch had held him so tight he’d bruised in places he didn’t even think he could.

The way he had howled his name as he came, a broken dying call, lost in the snow storm.

Shit.

He stands, hand pressed over his half hard cock.

Shit.

It doesn’t happen often.

This need.

This urgency.

That if he doesn’t have Dutch’s mouth on his, hands on him, cock inside him.

He’ll die.

Melodramatic, laughable. 

Only one person on this whole earth makes him feel this way. Ruled. Fucked. 

He exits his tent, sees Marston and Bill playing a drunken, half-hearted hand of poker. Hears Bill say again how he wants Dutch to come to him for more, ask him, trust him.

Arthur knows what Bill Williamson wants.

And if he stops to think about it, he might get angry.

Instead he walks past John, cups a hand around his throat and tilts his head back. John grins up at him, all sloppy smile and wide eyes.

“Go to bed, Marston.” He stays long enough to eyeball Williamson and then makes his way along. Past Dutch’s tent, where he forces himself not to look through the gap to see if he’s there. Past now, down to the water, along,

Along,

Lost in his thoughts.

Hoping to find a quiet place, away from everyone, away from distractions. 

A place where he can…

He stops suddenly,

Waits.

Not a sound but the absence of sound.

A tred so familiar he hadn’t even noticed it.

He turns, and even that feels slow in the cloying air.

“I said you’d be a terrible hunter, but Hosea always thinks he knows better.” 

Dutch.

Outlined in the moonlight.

All dark shadows and sharp angles.

Arthur swallows hard.

“Hunter?” What a brainless thing to say and he chides himself for it, but something about the air, the heat, the night and Dutch appearing out of it all like a goddamn dream makes him stupid.

“I’ve been tracking you down the whole of this beach, Arthur.” Dutch steps closer and the moonlight picks out the things Arthur desires the most.

“Now what ever,” 

Closer still, so that Arthur can see the bead of sweat drip down the hollow of his throat, can see the curl of his hair over his forehead now, where it never stays put in the heat.

“Are you doing out here so late?”

Arthur wets his lips, can taste the salt of his own sweat on his tongue. He lets his eyes trail down Dutch’s body, down down down,

Then back to his gaze.

“It’s hot.” He murmurs.

Dutch laughs.

“It is. Any more blindingly obvious facts you feel like presenting to me?” 

Arthur feels himself smile.

“I’m hard.”

The air is charged with more than heat.

“Not blindly obvious from where I’m standing.” 

“Come closer then.” 

Almost a command but not quite.

A small defiance.

A little demand.

Arthur’s eyes almost roll into the back of his head when Dutch curls long fingers around his clothed cock, the heel of his hand pressing down hard.

Sweat drips down his back,

A line down his spine,

As Dutch closes in,

Lips against Arthurs ear.

“Tell me again, and this time the truth, what are you doing out here?” 

Lips against his Dutchs ear now.

“Been thinking about you, Dutch.” The words spill out,

Maybe the heat makes him stupid.

“Been thinking about the last time you fucked me. Been wanting it. Goddamn, all day today I’ve been so…”

Still whispering,

By the shoreline.

Water lapping.

There’s no-one else around.

“Dutch,” 

There’s a line of trees behind them. 

“I’m so goddamn hot.”

***

On the dirt beneath the canopied trees, moonlight filtering through leaves that have not even a hint of a breeze to move them.

Dutch’s fingers in his mouth, 

Commanding him to wet them.

Arthur spreads his legs, hooks one around Dutch’s thigh as he settles in between.

Sticky skin.

Slick.

Fingers circle him, brushing against where he wants them most.

He doesn’t always want this,

But tonight…

He holds Dutch’s gaze as he pushes one finger in.

Too dry.

Too rushed.

Arthur groans, panting for breath against the pain.

He can hear Dutch’s calm breathing above him, squeezes his eyes shut when Dutch pushes his fingers in his mouth again.

“Enough this time, Arthur. You won’t get a third chance.” 

How does he know? How does he always seem to know just what he wants. Just what he needs. It’s always been this way, and he’s never been able to understand it. 

Arthur lifts his head when Dutch takes his fingers from his mouth and spits into his palm for good measure.

It’s almost worth it to see Dutch grimace in distaste.

Fingers back up inside him, pushing deep, brushing against that sweet spot. The one only Dutch has ever been able to find. That pleasure one no-one else, no woman, man, whore, has ever been able to give him.

Arthur keens.

And Dutch laughs.

“That’s it, my boy.”

Pushing in harder, his cock leaking onto his abdomen with every thrust.

“You could come just from this couldn’t you?” Arthur knows his gaze is wild as he grips onto Dutch’s shoulders, feels the muscles move as he thrusts three in now.

Pulsing.

“You could, oh.” Dutch is grinning now, knelt up over him, hair curled up around his ears and temples, his voice deep and dark in the sweltering heat. “Lovely boy.” 

“I think,” Arthur finds some semblance of himself when Dutch pulls his fingers away and opens his hand again for Arthur to spit into. “That at my age, I can't really be called a boy any more.”

“Hm.” Dutch hums to himself, a growl in the back of his throat as he strokes himself, propping himself up on one hand next to Arthur’s head.

“And I think,” 

Guides himself inside.

Just the tip of him,

Burning.

“That you are lovely.”

The sudden push makes Arthur cry out, a thrust of a breath, a punch, a wicked combination of pleasure and pain. His hands spasm on Dutch’s shoulders, his thighs twitch and push closer, his entire body fires up, 

The heat of the night has nothing on what this feels like.

And Dutch,

Dutch is relentless.

A pace that even Arthur didn’t know he had in him.

Faster than at Colter.

Harder than the time he caught Arthur with a whore.

Deeper than...

Well.

Arthur closes his eyes against the onslaught, trying to centre himself, trying not to lose control. But the pace and the heat and the pain and the pleasure,

“My god.”

He cries out.

Sweat dripping, skin sticking, fast and wicked and hard and everything he wanted.

Dutch propped above him on both arms now, looking down at where their bodies meet. 

Faster and harder.

Someone could hear them,

The stillness of the night…

“Dutch...Dutch…” The salt slick of his lips on his, messy and wet,

The slide of a tongue down his throat,

Lapping at the beads of sweat in the hollow.

Arthurs fingers in Dutch’s wet hair, gripping at the strands, bunching them up in his fingers just to hear the groan- so different to the others- that he makes when his hair is pulled.

Arthur reaches down to touch himself, close and wanting to come and not wanting to come at the same time.

His hand is slapped away,

“From me.” 

Dutch bites his throat, shoves a hand up under Arthur’s hip to change the angle.

“Or not at all.” 

Bites again, enough to draw blood and the sting of sweat in the open wound is enough to make Arthur writhe and jerk and know,

Without a doubt,

That he will come just from this.

Pain,

It’s something they both know about. Something they live with. Something they inflict and have inflicted upon them.

Pain is not something Arthur likes, as a rule.

Unless,

Coupled with heat,

And sweat,

And the moon, the hiss of water from far away, the dirt sticking to his backside, the relentless fucking he’s being subjected to….

“If you stop,” He grips to Dutch’s hair again, tugs his head back and plants his own biting kiss in the centre of his throat. “I’ll die.”

Dutch arcs his head back further, grinds his hips against his.

“Don’t be so melodramatic.”

“I ain’t kidding Dutch.” 

He doesn’t know how he’s still speaking. His throat is dry, his body is broken, his mind is gone.

“You’re needy today.”

Shit.

That penetrates his blissed out mind.

Dangerous ground.

He shakes his head,

“It ain’t you Dutch.” 

A break in the fuck.

A second, just one. And the answer is either the wrong one, or not but Arthur is too far gone to tiptoe through Dutch’s traps, because even if he falters this time, he’ll make it up next time. 

A break, and then a laugh.

A hard thrust that pushes Arthur up and back and another one that…

Shit, goddamn fuck,

And he’s coming, finally. 

Eyes in the back of his head, fingers slack against Dutch’s throat, mouth open in a choked back sob, Dutch’s voice coaxing him through.

Until, 

a low groan and,

Heat,

Stronger than the southern night,

Hotter than anything,

Heat, filling him, sticky and awful and disgusting and brilliant.

And Dutch all but falls on top of him, curls his arms around Arthur’s head for the quickest of moments, gone before he can enjoy it.

Gone,

Back into the night, 

As finally,

Finally, 

The storm hits.


End file.
